


Saturday Night, Sunday Morning

by NotManTheLessButNatureMore



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Drabble, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, LET ME TELL YOU, The adventures of Nick and Oggy, broken collarbones do not spark joy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-19 09:41:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20329063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotManTheLessButNatureMore/pseuds/NotManTheLessButNatureMore
Summary: I’m using my pain in a constructive way so here’s Strike and Nick returning to the office after a slightly disastrous night in the pub watching the footie.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello my dear Strike lovers! 
> 
> I broke my collarbone (it does NOT spark joy, 10/10 would NOT recommend) so here’s me putting my experience to good use (it is day 3, so I’m not a professional broken collarbone writer (everything takes 10 hours and I still can’t tie my shoes one handed) but I’ve definitely got my undergrad by now.) 
> 
> I wrote this semi- cleared headed (one handed typing does also NOT spark joy)but the second read through/spell check was a few minutes ago and I have taken some beautiful painkillers so what I’m trying to say is that hopefully there aren’t many mistakes. 
> 
> Enjoy and apologies to Strike but at least we’re in this together.

Robin heard two sets of footsteps come up the stairs and looked away from her computer screen to see the familiar dark shadow of her partner behind the frosted glass of the office door. She saw his shadow move in direction from where it had been headed towards the stairs up to the attic flat and then a second shorter form appeared from behind him. Robin looked back at her computer screen and slumped slightly in her seat, as if in a bid to hide, at the thought that Strike might appear in the office with a giggling and glamorous date.

The door opened and Strike’s head appeared around the side of it.

“It’s Sunday.” He said, his eyebrows furrowed and his face dark in the early morning light.

It had been raining all night and was still now drizzling slightly as dark clouds hung over London. The August weather had been a strange mixture of autumn and summer with cold, grey days and warm and sunny afternoons. As she looked closer she saw he wasn’t wearing a jacket, just a navy blue shirt, and there was a dark strap across the small part of his shoulder that she could see.

“What time is it?” Strike turned and asked whoever was behind him. Nick’s voice offered the time, just after half seven, and then Robin saw his face appear behind Strike with a smile. She felt her mood lift instantly.

Not a giggling and glamorous date then.

There was a slight unfocused look in Strike’s eye and Robin smiled and shook her head at the thought of Strike and Nick drunkenly wandering home at this hour. She walked around her desk towards the door wanting to say hi to Nick and then stopped short when she saw more of Cormoran. His shirt collar was awkwardly pulled up on the left side, buttons open halfway down his chest, and there was a bag of ice strapped to his shoulder, visible underneath his top and held in place by a blue bandage that crossed his chest and disappeared under his shirt. His left arm was in a sling, the usual strap snaked over his good shoulder and across his back while another was wrapped around his chest holding his arm securely to his body.

“What happened?” Robin blurted out as Strike stepped into the room followed by a glum-faced Nick.

“Nick assaulted me.”

“What?” Robin blurted out.

“Stop telling people that.” Nick complained as he hovered while Strike sat down slowly with a hiss when his back came to lie against the office couch.

“He shoved me off the bar stool.”

“I didn’t shove you.” Nick exclaimed and then turned to Robin, “Spurs scored and I got a little excited.”

“So he-“

“So I might have thumped him on the back a little vigorously. I didn’t mean for this to happen though.” Nick explained.

“Intent doesn’t matter mate, it’s still assault.” Strike said from the couch, a slight teasing glint in his eye.

“And what did happen?” Robin asked as she came around to sit beside Strike.

“I overbalanced and fell off the bar stool when he thumped me one. Caught the side of the table beside us with my collarbone on the way done.”

“Ouch.” Robin said with a frown.

“Mm.” Strike agreed and then winced when he moved to rest his head back on the couch and it pulled on his shoulder.

“So is it broken?” She asked.

“Yeah.” Nick supplied. “Sorry Oggy.”

“I’ll forgive you if you find me some breakfast.” Strike mumbled with his eyes shut and a grey look on his face.

“Have you been in A&E this whole time?” Robin asked.

“Yeah, Saturday night in London.” Nick offered as an explanation.

“Vending machine was broken too.” Strike said, sounding like a sulky child and Robin fought the urge to rest her hand on his good shoulder.

“Oh!” She said and then jumped up, missing the wince on Strike’s face when the couch jostled him. He’d never given much thought to his collarbone before but now every movement he made, whether as small as breathing or turning his head, sent a hot fiery pain shooting along his shoulder and into his neck. Even the feeling of the ice against his collarbone caused an annoying dull pressure.

Nick strolled over and watched as Robin rooted around in the fridge. She pulled a container of leftover pasta she had brought for lunch from the top shelf and then stood and put the kettle on and opened the drawer of cutlery.

“Not your typical breakfast food but-“

“It’ll do. Robin, you’re a star.” Strike said and his tired smile chased the morning’s chill away.

“You can make a start on them.” Robin said as she passed Nick the chocolate biscuits usually kept beside the tea caddy and then set to making them all a cup of tea.

“Forgive me now?” Nick asked Strike as he shoved a biscuit into his mouth and passed another to his friend.

“No.”

“You said if-“

“Robin’s the one supplying the food, not you. In fact, you’re eating my agency’s biscuits there.”

“Your agency?” Robin teased above the gurgling of the kettle.

“Our agency.” Strike corrected and then leaned forward to steal the biscuit that was in Nick’s hand. His arm barely moved in the sling but the shift caused a dragging sensation in his shoulder and the unnatural feeling of the now separate pieces of his collarbone shifting slightly caused his stomach to turn. He didn’t quite mange to bite back a curse.

“Don’t move about suddenly, it’s still fresh.” Nick’s voice came from somewhere beside him as Strike shut his eyes and breathed through the stinging pain as it flushed through his shoulder.

“Really? Hadn’t noticed.” Strike said, his voice strained.

He felt Nick’s hand pull his shirt collar aside, now wet from the melted ice pack, and he tried to bat his hand away.

“Might as well get rid of this now. Robin, have you got a scissors?” Nick said and Robin pulled one from somewhere on her desk.

He snipped away at the blue bandage wrapped around Strike’s chest and grabbed the ice pack as it fell away before pulling the bandage up through his shirt.

“Ow, fuck.” Strike cursed as Nick reached around and lifted the sling’s strap slightly where it crossed his back so he could pull the bandage free.

“You could probably take some more painkillers now.” Nick said as he looked at his watch and calculated the time since the nurse had given Strike his last dose.

Strike just mumbled an agreement as the pain settled into a stinging throb that kept time with his heartbeat. A cup of tea appeared in front of him and Robin’s concerned face was hovering inches from his. She reached across and pulled his shirt collar aside again to get a look at his shoulder. There was a deep red bruise running almost the length of his collarbone and about halfway along it deepened into purple where there was a slight bump. Robin reached out and Strike held his breath as her fingers hovered just shy of touching his shoulder.

“Here you go.” Nick said as he held out two pills and a glass of water.

“Thanks.”

Robin pulled back and waited for Strike to swallow the pills before handing him his tea. She walked back to the kitchen and grabbed the two plates of pasta she had dished out for the boys.

“Thanks Robin.” Nick said as he sat on the couch, passed a plate to Strike and started wolfing down his own food. Robin watched him as he ate and noticed how tired he looked after having spent the night in A&E with Strike.

“Does Ilsa know you’re here?” Robin asked.

“Yeah, I rang her last night. To be honest I don’t think she believed me at first, until the nurse walked in and she heard her. Probably thought I was drunk and making up some excuse to stay out all night.”

Strike pursed his lips and made the sound of a whip making Robin chuckle.

“Oy! I’m not whipped, my wife just cares about whether I end up drunk in a gutter or not.” Nick said defensively and Strike just smiled and knocked his ankle gently against Nick’s beside him.

Robin grabbed a chocolate biscuit and sat on the edge of her desk, watching as Strike looked down at his plate and then back to the cup of tea in his hand. Before she could step forward Nick turned and took Strike’s tea from him and placed it on the floor, leaving him with a hand free to eat his food with. The rain eased off as they sat in the relative quiet of an early Sunday morning in London, Robin sipping on her second tea of the day and the others munching away.

“What are you doing here this early on a Sunday?” Strike asked as he put his fork back on the plate. He was feeling slightly nauseous again, either due to the painkillers or the pain itself.

“I woke early and couldn’t get back to sleep. Thought I’d come in and finish some paperwork that was hanging over me before going shopping.” She shrugged.

Strike looked at her closely, searching for dark circles and a troubled look but he found neither. She looked bright, the opposite in every way to the grey day outside.

“Finished?” She asked, eyeing the plate on his knees.

“Yeah, thanks. I don’t think I have any food upstairs but I’ll pay for a meal deal if you want one?” Strike offered by way of apology for he and Nick eating her lunch.

“That’s alright.” Robin said as she took his plate.

“Actually, Nick will pay for it.”

“Me?” Nick said around a mouthful of pasta and veggies.

“Yes, you owe me. We’ve established that.” Strike replied and Robin smiled at the look on Nick’s face.

“Is this going to hang over me forever?”

“Yes.” Strike said as he took a deep breath and Robin watched him bring his good arm around to grip his other elbow.

“I don’t bring up my broken ankle all the time.”

“Well that was your own fault, not mine. And you bring it up at least six times a year.” Strike replied with a glance thrown sideways at Nick. Robin narrowed her eyes and looked at the two of them, wondering about all the adventures that had happened during their years of friendship.

“So who won the match after?” Robin asked as she took a sip of her tea and perched herself back on her desk. Nick and Strike both looked at each other and Nick roughly pulled his phone from his back pocket.

“Oh, for... Liverpool. 2 - 1.” Nick said after a moment of scrolling through Twitter.

“Who got the winner?” Strike asked as he stretched his leg out in front of him.

“Mo Salah.”

“Good.”

“Good? It’s Liverpool, we hate Liverpool.”

“I like Mo Salah.” Strike explained with a yawn and a wince.

Robin glanced at her watch and saw that it was nearing eight.

“Why don’t you go and get a few hours of sleep?” Robin suggested as Strike looked at her with tired eyes. He just moaned negatively and looked down at his sling.

“A few hours is better than nothing, you’ll be glad later. And I might just have your favourite takeaway waiting for lunch when you wake up.” Robin offered as a bribe.

Strike sighed quietly to himself. Walking up the stairs to the office had sent jolts of pain up through him and into his shoulder and he didn’t relish the thought of climbing up into the attic flat.

“She’s right Oggy.” Nick said as he stood and held a hand out towards Strike.

Strike looked between the two of them and nodded. He felt exhausted and sleep at least promised the absence of pain. He reached out and Nick grabbed his outstretched hand and gently pulled him up.

“Thanks mate.” Strike said softly.

“Want me to undress you?” Nick asked with a wink and Robin almost snorted her tea at how high Strike’s eyebrows climbed.

“What?”

“Trust me Oggy, all those buttons? You’ll be glad of my magic hands.” Nick teased.

“Keep your hands away from me.”

“Come on, like I haven’t seen you in your undies before.” Nick argued, his grin widening and looking somewhat manic from lack of sleep.

“Really?” Robin asked with a quirked brow.

“The last time was a drunken night in a Welsh caravan. We were supposed-“

“Alright, alright.” Strike interrupted Nick. “No one needs to hear that story.”

“Some day.” Nick said with a wink thrown in Robin’s direction. “Well, I should head off. I’ll see you on Friday Robin.” Nick smiled as he walked Strike out into the hall.

“Bye Nick.”

Robin glanced at the window as she collected mugs and plates. The dark clouds outside had lightened a little and the rain had finally eased off. The office door was still open and Robin listened as Strike and Nick’s footsteps slowly ascended the stairs. Their voices were carried back down to her and she heard a familiar grumbling tone.

“I’ve lost another limb because of you.”

“You didn’t lose it. It’s just a bit useless for a while.”

“Yeah, yeah.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! A big thank you for all your well wishes and nice comments about the first chapter! :) Very much appreciated. 
> 
> I had some ideas for the first chapter that I just completely forgot to include 😂 (thanks foggy brain) so I was thinking of writing another chapter and with under_my_blue_umbrella's encouragement here we are.
> 
> I'm trying to give a fairly realistic account of a broken collarbone (I have spared Corm the trauma of accidentally shrugging) but I don't want it to be boring and have every second line just the word 'ow' 😂 and with everything he's gone through with his leg I'm sure Strike has a pretty high pain threshold but broken collarbones are not fun (yawning hurts!! Like, what?!) and I trashed my knee once playing hurling (cracked the kneecap three times, dislocated it and tore the ligaments and muscle. Fun.) and somehow the collarbone is worse?!
> 
> Anyway, what I'm trying to say is hopefully this isn't a bit boring or repetitive 😀
> 
> (p.s. the usual 'hope there's no mistakes' applies.)

“Ow, fuck.” Strike exclaimed as he finally got horizontal, or at least semi-horizontal. Nick had rearranged the pillows on his bed and then guided him back to lie titled to one side slightly with a pillow underneath his shoulder and arm and a flatter one under his head.

“Ow.” He repeated.

“Is that a ‘this hurts but I can stay here for a nap’ kind of ‘ow’? Or a ‘we need to find another position’ kind of ‘ow’?” Nick asked.

“First.” Strike said, trying to slow his breathing as it jostled his arm where it lay across his chest.

Nick set to unlacing and pulling off Strike’s boot, his prosthetic leg already discarded.

“Shit, should have got your trousers off while you were standing.” Nick sighed looking along the length of his friend. His shirt was a creased mess, half open and pulled this way and that under the sling.

“S’alright.” Strike replied, his eyes already shut as he tried to block out the existence of his collarbone and the fire licking its way along his shoulder and up into his neck. He heard Nick move about, heard a thump on the floor near the top of his bed that might have been his leg and another lighter one that was probably his boot. He flinched when he felt a pull on his belt buckle and his eyes snapped open.

“Only me.” Came Nick’s cheery voice and Strike instantly scowled.

“What are you doing?”

“Trust me, when you do finally attempt to get your trousers off you’ll thank me when you’ve only got buttons and a zipper to wrestle with and not a belt.” Nick explained. “Don’t lift your hips.” He warned as he freed the belt from the loops of Strike’s trousers and then slid it free from underneath him.

“Thanks.” Strike sighed as his eyes slid shut again. He heard Nick’s footsteps move about the tiny flat, heard the kitchen tap turn on and off and the dull thud of his box of painkillers being thrown onto a countertop. A few moments later he felt a hand on his good arm and then nothing as the throbbing of his shoulder slowly gave way to oblivion.

* * *

He wasn’t sure what woke him. He had a vague sense of a car alarm having just gone off but now that his brain registered he was awake the aches and pains lying in wait made themselves known.

“Bollocks.”

“You okay?” Robin’s voice asked and the last vestiges of sleep fled as Strike jerked his head to the side to see her hiding partly behind his door and then hissed when it pulled on his shoulder. Robin took it as a cue to enter and he saw she had two tote bags in her hand.

“Are you okay? Well, obviously not but-“

“I’m fine.” He mumbled gruffly and then grabbed the edge of the bed with his good hand. His thoughts reminded him that Robin was a few feet from his bed and he was flat on his back without his leg and now with a practically useless arm. A familiar feeling of vulnerability creeped in and he made a move to correct it. Tensing his stomach muscles and trying to keep his arm as relaxed as possible he pulled himself up, biting on his bottom lip as a stinging sensation shot through his collarbone and he felt it shift, almost as if gravity was pulling it this way and that.

“Fuck.” He gasped, the lines around his eyes deep.

Robin was beside him then, a hand against his back as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stilled. He took some deep breaths and looked at the bags that hung from her hand. The one at the front had the logo from some farmer’s market on the front, a bouquet of sorts with vegetables instead of flowers stamped onto the middle of it. Strike remembered a lunch break last month that Robin had spent reading articles aloud about single use plastics.

“What’s that?” He asked.

“Popped out for some supplies. You said earlier that you didn’t have any food and I remembered that you usually do your shopping on a Sunday, so...” Robin explained, smiling at the end to hide any self consciousness.

Strike eyed the bags, “What did you get?”

“Well I got the usual, bread and milk, and-“

“Any Mars bars?” Strike interrupted and Robin smiled before pulling out a multipack.

“Of course.” She said as she opened the pack and passed him one.

“Cheers.”

“I got some cereal in case making toast is too awkward and a few Pot Noodles and packets of soup.”

“What cereal?” Strike asked as he tried to peak into the bag.

“Corn Flakes.”

Strike just frowned and Robin felt suddenly like a babysitter trying to impress a new kid.

“What’s wrong with Corn Flakes?”

“Could have stretched to Frosties.” He mumbled, looking up at her with rounded eyes as he pressed his good hand to the other elbow. He didn’t quite manage to stop a smile forming as Robin rolled her eyes.

“Be grateful I didn’t just get you vegetables and fruit.” She teased.

Strike used his teeth to rip open the Mars bar while Robin walked over to his tiny kitchen and began unpacking the shopping.

“I got sandwich stuff, some semi-healthy ready meals, bananas, oh and cheese and yoghurts,” She said, turning to smile, “I figured your collarbone could do with the calcium.”

It was nice, Strike thought to himself as he watched Robin opening presses and figuring out where things went, having someone else in the flat in this way. He watched her emptying the bag, his attention no longer on the jars and packets she produced but on her, as her hair fell around her shoulders and her jumper rose above the waistband of her jeans when she stretched to the top shelf.

“What time is it?” He asked, as much to figure out how long he’d slept as to stop his thoughts from where they were wandering to.

“Nearly one.”

Her answer coincided with the arrival of a new problem. His bladder was making it very much known that it had been quite a few hours since he’d used the bathroom at the hospital, thankfully alone after giving Nick the iciest glare of his life when he’d asked if he needed a hand in front of the hen party sitting across from them in A&E.

He looked up and saw that Robin was busy putting the bananas into a makeshift fruit bowl she’d found somewhere. Strike put the Mars bar down andleaned forward slowly to try and grab his prosthetic, but his bad arm seemed to forget its current predicament and twitched involuntarily. He gasped as a stabbing pain shot up through his shoulder and seemed to chisel itself into surrounding muscles.

“Cormoran?” Robin was beside him now, her new trainers side by side with the boot of his prosthetic foot abandoned by the bed.

“How can I help?” She asked as he released his death grip on the side of the bed.

“It’s fine. I... I’m just... just a bit stranded.” Strike admitted with a tight smile. He saw her frown and then watched, barely containing a wince, as she looked from his empty trouser leg to his prosthetic on the floor to his shoulder.

“Ah.”

“Need to have a piss and, well I think I might pass out if I try to hop around with this.” He explained with tight laugh trying to convey some sense of lightheartedness.

“Right.” She said, looking down, and he could see the cogs turning.

“Nick helped me get it off, turns out bending forward with this,” he said, his head dipping to nod at the sling, “makes it feel like my collarbone is sliding apart.”

“Gross.” Robin said quickly.

“Yeah. Anyway, I can’t uh...” He just looked down, a familiar feeling of impotence creeping in that had first attached itself to him not long after he’d woken, flat on his back with what remained of his leg raised, in a German military hospital.

“What do you need me to do?” Robin said and he looked up suddenly. No reluctance, no revulsion just practical help. Charlotte’s face appeared in his fuzzy post-nap mind, her glances at his leg each night as she joined him in bed, face always blank enough that he was left to wonder whether she felt repulsed or indifferent.

“Uh...”

_Not tonight Bluey._

“Actually it’s fine, I’ll just-“

“Suffer in silence in a bid to maintain your manly pride?” Robin said, adding a sarcastic edge to her voice.

“You sound like Ilsa.” Strike commented.

“Come on, is me helping you really that bad?”

“Yes.” Strike admitted a little too quickly. He glanced up to see Robin look away, hurt written across her face.

“No, I... Robin, it’s not you. Really, it’s not.”

“It’s not me, it’s you?” Robin asked and Strike thought he saw a hint of amusement in her eyes. He huffed a laugh, one of exasperation and exhaustion.

“Sorry, I’m just-“

“Being a stubborn idiot. But, in light of recent events I guess you get a pass.”

He just looked at her with a strange mixture of offence and admiration. He remembered being a kid and listening with boredom one Christmas as a slightly drunk uncle Ted told him how aunt Joan was the only person in the world who could save him from himself.

“Come on, you can either sit here and wrestle with it for God knows how long or let me help you? Which is it?” Robin asked, all business. Strike groaned and then gathered himself.

“If you could uh, just grab my leg. And there should be a sock in that drawer.”

He quickly pulled his trouser leg up while she was turned away. He didn’t quite uncover his stump, the thought that Robin had never seen it up this close with all its marks and scars and blotchy skin. But in typical Robin fashion she passed him the sock without a word, lined up his prosthetic beside him on the bed and then sat closely ready to help. There were no hollow words of sympathy or forced jokes, just a hand ready to do as directed.

Charlotte had never done this, he thought. During his lowest days he’d wondered if the reason she began showering after him in the mornings was because she couldn’t bear to be in the room while he moisturised his stump and rubbed chafing cream in. She had marvelled at the first permanent prosthetic leg he’d gotten, joked about him turning robotic on her, but her leg had never again tangled around his in bed.

It wasn’t the most comfortable job but they got the sock pulled up over his stump, Robin’s hands mimicking his, and some awkward shoving got his leg on. Robin jumped up with youthful vigour that seemed a distant memory to Strike and he pulled himself up, bracing his legs and leaving his upper body as relaxed as possible.

As he walked slowly towards the bathroom, each step somehow awaking a new ache, Strike’s thoughts turned sour as he looked around his flat. He’d have to keep his damn leg on all day, lest he should want to move from his bed to the armchair the other side of the flat or even get a cup of fucking tea. He’d been trapped once before, in hospital beds when infections and surgeries left him dizzy and weak, and in armchairs when he was too tired to use crutches.

“I hate this.” He muttered and heard Robin’s soft “I know” behind him.

He made it to the bathroom without incident, feeling slightly lopsided as his prosthetic foot was with boot but his own foot was without, Robin on her knees in front of him tying his shoes was not something he could face. For more reasons than one.

He’d brushed his teeth, cursing loudly as he tried to grip the toothpaste with his now useless hand to get the cap unscrewed and needed Robin to come to his rescue. Now, he was settled in his armchair, sitting slightly sideways and with a pillow behind him, as Robin made them both a sandwich. She’d reasoned that a takeaway for dinner rather than lunch would make more sense as he’d be on his own then.

“Oh, you know that meeting you’ve got on Thursday?” Robin said and then dropped the knife she was holding, “_WHAT ARE YOU DOING?_” She shrieked as she rushed towards Strike.

Sitting with a cigarette hanging from his lips, he had a box of matches between his knees and was striking a match against it just as Robin got to him. A spark flashed between his knees and he pulled the flaming match away as Robin grabbed it from his hand and blew it out.

“What are you-“ Strike began to protest.

“What are _you_ doing? You’re going to set yourself on fire!“

“No, I’m not.”

“Idiot.” Robin said under her breath.

“Excuse me?” He said, cigarette bouncing as it hung from his lips.

“Well starting a fire between your legs isn’t safe.”

Robin looked down and saw Strike quirk an eyebrow, eyelashes dark against his skin and lips moving into a lopsided grin.

“Shut up.” She mumbled as she grabbed the box of matches from between his knees and lit one. Strike held her gaze as she put the match in front of him and he lit the cigarette.

Robin’s eyes trailed from the match to his lips, pursed around the cigarette. She looked down and saw his shirt was still half open, pulled enough to one side that she could just make out some of the bruising on his collarbone.

Strike blew out his first lungful of smoke as Robin straightened and noticed an amused smile on her face.

“What?” He asked.

Robin smirked and then leaned down again, pulling his shirt collar aside.

“One of the marks on your shoulder, it looks like an upside down heart.” She said and walked back to the kitchen, leaving Strike trying and failing to get a look at his collarbone.

“Didn’t happen to buy any beer did you?” He asked as she sliced their sandwiches in half, something Strike was adding to the list of actions he hadn’t yet figured out how he’d do one-handed. The list ranged from showering without removing his sling or getting it wet to anything to do with his leg if Nick or Robin weren’t around.

“No! You’re taking painkillers.”

“I’m always taking painkillers, doesn’t usually stop me.” He grumbled.

“Well it probably should.” She argued, walking over and putting their food on the table beside him before dragging a kitchen chair over for herself. As Robin sat beside him she noticed a distinct smell of cigarettes and beer, the smell of a night spent in the pub.

“Do you want help changing your shirt?” She asked and Strike looked down, now noticing a few splotches from the beer that he’d brought to the floor with him and remembering that he’d been wearing it since yesterday afternoon.

Strike’s gaze moved to his sling and he sighed heavily. He’d taken painkillers after brushing his teeth but they only took the edge off the pain if he was sitting still, any movement just sent stinging daggers slicing along his collarbone and up into his neck. He tried to reason with the idea of turning down Robin’s offer, but the reasonable part of his brain knew it would be easier with her help. He reminded himself that she’d now helped him put his leg on, changing shirts was nothing compared.

“I-“

“-hate this, I know. Just think of all the football you can watch while you’re out sick.”

“One,” he said, holding up a finger, “I’m not out sick, I just need a day or two and-“

“Cormoran-“

“And two: there’s no football until Wednesday night.” He grimaced.

“Well you could watch replays.” Robin suggested.

“Where’s the excitement in that?” He asked, his brows furrowed in genuine confusion and Robin just rolled her eyes.

“Come on, Stephen dislocated his shoulder during a rugby match in Sixth Form so I know my way around a sling.”

She stood and walked around to the side of the armchair.

“Ready?”

Robin had her hands on the Velcro straps before Strike even located them. He’d been suitably distracted by the pain in his collarbone after having his shoulder and arm moved into position when the temporary sling, first given to him by a triage nurse, had been swapped for this more permanent one. Nick had stood wincing beside him and trying to make jokes.

Strike sucked in a breath as Robin undid the Velcro strap around his chest, her hand gripping his arm to help keep it steady. With her free hand she grabbed the pillow that was behind him and put it under his arm. Strike shut his eyes and felt her hands move to the buttons of his shirt. In a quick move that had him sucking in shorts breaths and repeating the words ‘ow’ and ‘fuck’ in his head, Robin leaned him forward, pulled his good arm free from his shirt and undid the strap that crossed his back.

“Okay?” She asked, received a slight nod in reply.

She peeled the shirt sleeve down his bad arm, noticing him flinch when the fabric brushed his broken collarbone, and then paused when it reached his elbow. She had tried to ignore the act of unbuttoning his shirt, ignore the skin that it revealed and the ripple of muscle across his chest and undamaged arm when she pulled it free. This close however, her eyes strayed across the wide expanse of his chest and the dark hair that covered it, the silvery scar near his other shoulder and the freckles that trailed their way up to his neck.

“Fuckin’ hell.” And with a deep breath the spell was broken.

“Hold your arm here, above your elbow.” She directed him and in one swift move lifted his arm free from the sling long enough to pull the rest of his shirt free.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He said, a sweat breaking out on his forehead as his collarbone shifted and his stomach turned.

“Sorry, sorry.” Robin said as she replaced the strap across his shoulder and back to give him some support.

“I can help you put a t-shirt on but it might be easier to just throw a jumper on top and you can sleep shirtless. What do you think?” Robin left the suggestion hanging and waited until Strike opened his eyes again.

“Jumper, definitely jumper.” He mumbled, smiling tightly and tiredly as Robin smiled back before replacing the strap around his chest, looping it into the buckle near his hand and closing the Velcro tightly. She grabbed the burgundy jumper from where it lay at the bottom of his bed and pulled it down over him, leaving his bad arm underneath and blissfully untouched.

“I’ll make some tea.” She said after putting the pillow back behind him. Strike looked from her to their sandwiches to the lump under his jumper that was his arm and felt a world-weary laugh threaten to bubble up to the surface. In a matter of hours they had gone from navigating around each other in a choreographed dance to him sitting in his flat while she made them tea after having helped him undress and put his leg on. He felt at sea, and not just because of the throbbing in his shoulder or the blanket of fog produced by the painkillers.

Robin watched as Strike shut his eyes, the lines of pain on his pale skin never leaving his face.

“I should have bought Rice Crispies” Robin said. Strike opened his eyes and looked at her, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Why?”

Robin looked at his shoulder and sucked in her cheeks, her lips pursed.

“Snap, crackle and pop.” She said, a grin spreading across her face rapidly and a sparkle in her eyes. Strike just groaned, gladly not from pain.

“That’s a bloody terrible joke.”

“I liked it.” Robin said, her voice teasing as she pulled two mugs from the press. Waiting for the kettle to boil she watched as he eyed up the sandwich in front of him.

“I’ll pay you back for the food you bought.” He said and Robin was about to offer it as a ‘get well soon’ present when he continued.

“Must have cost an arm and a leg.” He remarked casually before a cheeky grin betrayed him and Robin groaned.

“Oh god, _that_ was awful.” She said, her Yorkshire accent rounding the last word and making Cormoran smile tiredly, the pain in his shoulder momentarily soothed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> (Fun fact: The heart shaped bruise may seem corny but I actually had one for a few days. It's just a blob now, sadly.)
> 
> (Side note: in the first chapter I had Nick help Strike to stand by pulling him up by his good arm and nope, nope, nope, do not try at home kids. That was not a realistic account.)
> 
> (Another side note: I think the heavy duty painkillers had taken effect when I wrote the notes on the first chapter so apologies for that 😂 Although it's me, so maybe no one could tell a difference 😂)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed and are having a good week!
> 
> EDIT: I meant to dedicate this to my flat mate cause she went to A&E with me at 2am-ish and tied my shoes and is super fine with the soundtrack to our flat now being me saying ‘Ow’ and ‘fuckin hell’ every 20 seconds at various decibel levels. She doesn’t read Strike fanfic but this will have to do until I can buy her a cake. Alright, good night everyone!


End file.
